


Ziggy Played Guitar

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Fantasy, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 17:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21183440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: In celebration of Halloween, Howard and Vince receive potions that will grant them their most wished-for superpower for one day.  It's a dream come true, except there's a mix-up with the packages. . . .





	Ziggy Played Guitar

I. "Of How Others Must See the Faker"

'Twas the night before Halloween and all through the Nabootique not a creature was stirring, because they were all out partying in their various ways. This time of year Xooberon celebrated its biggest festival season, exchanging gifts ("Gifts for Gits," Saboo called it, loudly lamenting the Shamanic Council's Secret Santa exchange in which he always seemed to draw Tony's name, and pretending he was too sophisticated to be excited by the merry jangle of tiny sleigh bells attached to the Party Carpet come to pick him up for a Kirk-organized night of debauchery.) This year for the first time, Naboo had been invited to Kirkfest, supposedly as the Council's attempt to diversify, but really, Naboo knew, to water down the guilt the Head felt for nearly executing him multiple times in the past three years. Besides, they needed a decent DJ and a designated carpet driver. 

So the shop was closed, Naboo and Bollo were gone for the week, Vince was making the rounds of _Cheekbone's_ Cheeky Ten Must Do Hot Spots, and even Howard had a full social calendar. Well, not so much "social," because he was attending a nightly lecture series at the Institute of Office Machinery. Tonight's topic was especially urgent: "The Rise of Personal Computing: Is This the End of the Pencil As We Know It?"

Stumbling home, stupefied after the lecture and horrified to the depths of his pocket-protected soul, Howard let himself into the shop and went straight to Stationery Town, where he soothed himself by recataloging the alligator clips (by shades of gray and black this time, instead of size). His fingers trembled through the entire task, he was that shaken by the lecture; not even a hasty pub visit with a few of his fellow Business Machine aficionados had calmed him. Between a mug of hard apple cider and his companions' fearful forecasts of a world without pencils, Howard had only found his anxiety rising. He locked up the shop, trod heavily up the stairs to the lounge, delicately set Last Exit on the turntable, and sank face-down into the sofa, there to grieve and, if the gods of stationery be merciful, die. Let his friends carve on his tombstone: Here Lies Howard, Our Last True Believer, Done in By Microsoft.

His mourning was disturbed sometime the next mid-morning by harsh sunlight pouring through his bedroom window and a purple fingernail prodding his chest. "Howard. Howard. Howard. Howard? Howard! HOW--"

He seized the purple finger to stop its jabbing and its owner's jabbering. He noted that the varnish was chipped, as were the vanishes Vince had so painstakingly applied to his other nails before going out last night. A different color for each finger, plus a few colors he'd invented himself: Vince was in his Prism Phase, determined to wear every color known to man on his body all at once. (He was already shopping for next week's look, which he called The Metropolis, something to do with busty evil androids.) 

Howard moaned, turning his sleep-crusted face into his pillow; then he noted that this was indeed his pillow and he levered himself into a crouch. "How did I. . . ." His throat was too dry to finish his question. He should not have had that cider last night. 

"Oh. I put you to bed, Howard. You always get a stiff neck when you sleep on the couch." Others might wonder how Vince, still attired in his party outfit and apparently having not gone to bed himself, could sparkle so after a full night of clubbing, but not Howard. He knew for a fact Vince, fueled by flirtinis and sweets and the occasional pancake, could go on like this for an entire week before crashing. Howard used to be impressed by this skill. Now, lately, he found himself wondering whether Vince could ever be happy living a powered-down life. A ten-to-five job, square meals, weekends bicycling in the country, evenings curled up beside a soft fire with Mingus on the gramophone. . . .

"Howardhowardhoward, don't fall asleep again. It's Halloween!" 

"It's the end of the ordered world," Howard mumbled, stuffing his face into his pillow. "Vince, last night, what I learned, it chilled me. Right to the core, Vince, the very core. And I don't think I can face the world to come. An apocalypse, sir, the likes of which neither your imagination nor mine or H. G. Welles could dream of."

Another day, Vince, recognizing the throes of Howard's despair, would let him talk it out, then, when Howard could raise his soul no more from the slimy cold depths, Vince would pour his sunshine out over them both, filling the room with glittering unicorns and prancing puppies and singing rainbows. Howard never could analyze how it happened--mesmerized, he could only stumble blindly into Vince's secret Skittles world and let himself be led to happiness by the blue-eyed Pan of Camden. It worked every time.

Today, however, Howard didn't want to be led. He wanted to write sternly worded letters to Bill Gates. He wanted to sulk. Pout. Fume. Wallow. Emotions he'd never been permitted to indulge in as the only son of a Northern man. When Vince turned on his kilowatt smile, Howard thrust his palm up to stop him. "No, sir, not today. Not yet. Sometimes even a man of action must pause to reflect."

Vince's smile vanished, but still his eyes remained bright with thoughts of the holiday ahead. Ghost-shaped pancakes with chocolate chip eyes, sunny orange juice, bags upon bags of sweets to buy for the mini Batmen and Pokemen and Meghan Markles who would catwalk past the shop door at twilight. 

And the best of all, the post-breakfast gift exchange. Although Naboo and Bollo wouldn't be home for it this year, Vince knew the gift exchange would go on, for, there, beneath the Halloween cactus, decorated with Gummi Bears and Flying Saucers, awaited six rainbow-wrapped packages, three each for Howard and Vince. (The gifts for Bollo and Naboo had been tucked into their luggage, to be opened tonight.)

If only Howard could be reminded of the joys to come today. If only Vince could electrify him with holiday anticip. . . ation. If only he'd get up and start the pancakes! 

Then Vince got an idea. "One minute," he urged, before winking mysteriously and bounding from the bedroom. Howard thrust his face back into his pillow and moaned the Prayer for the Dead for the Dixon Ticonderoga. 

Faster than he'd ever dressed before, faster than a trending mullet and more elegant than Naomi Campbell, Vince was back, freshly showered and shaved and now outfitted from white-and-blue pigtails to black high tops in his Halloween costume for the year: Harley Quinn. Torn t-shirt, ripped fishnets, tiny red-and-black pants, white makeup, sexy black mask--oh, Vince was transformed. Saucy, sassy and snazzy. He'd cut through the lounge long enough to slip a CD onto the stereo, and now, swinging a baseball bat, he catwalked into the bedroom, singing along with "Monster Mash." 

Howard groaned. He didn't want to be cheered up. He sat up, intending to shoo the little dancer away. But an intense beam of Vinshine struck him, made his jaw drop and his eyes pop, swept him to his feet, and before he could regain control, his hips were swaying in time with Harleyvince. Their arms slid around each other's necks. Who reached out first, neither could remember later. 

Oh, but then the music ended. Vince clicked his tongue: he should've set the stereo for replay. Howard released him, stepped back. Sighed. "All right. You go out and buy the sweets for tonight. I'll get breakfast on."

Every Halloween, Vince would tease, "Can't we open the presents first, just this once?" But not this Halloween. He wouldn't press his luck. He realized he'd narrowly escaped a morose Halloween. "Cheers, Howard," he sparkled, bouncing down the stairs. As Howard slogged off to the shower, he spotted Vince's purse on the bathroom floor. He'd gone off without money; never mind, he had a personal account at the sweets shop. (And a standing weekly order.)  
\---

Two strong cups of tea in him by the time of Vince's return, two stacks of ghost cakes warming in the oven, and two very neatly arranged (if he did say so himself) holiday place settings at your service, sir, and Howard felt human again. Yes, 'twas the End of the Era of the Palomino Blackwing, but Howard would bear it with all the dignity of a true-born Office Supply Man, and under the daily dose of Vinshine, he might dare to imagine a day when Vintage Cedar Pointes would be in demand. And who knows, perhaps the Computer Age would usher in a whole new world of office supplies beyond Howard's wildest imaginings. 

"How many trick-or-treaters are you expecting?" Howard chastised gently, waving his spatula at the armful of sacks behind which Vince was hidden. 

They sang this same song every year. "Oh, you know, the usual, but I thought I'd stock up in case Nestle's goes out of business." Vince deposited his delightful burden onto the kitchen counter. "Anyway, Simon threw in a gift bag for me. He liked my costume." Vince twirled to remind Howard what he'd been missing this past hour. 

"As do I, sir." And that was as much of a flirtation as Howard could do, so Vince gobbled it up. "Sit down. Breakfast is ready."

Vince had learned over the years to verbally appreciate the fine details Howard put into his breakfast preparations, so he complimented each one: "Mmm, fresh squeezed. Delicious." He sipped the juice. "The table looks lovely, Howard. Artistic."

"Made the centerpiece myself, sir."

"And the ghosts are smiling. I swear this one's winking at me." Vince drizzled blueberry syrup onto his stack. "I almost hate to cut into them."

"Eat, eat. You're skin and bones. People will think I don't feed you." But Howard's mustache twitched beneath his pink cheeks. 

"Mmm." And that was the remainder of the conversation until the last pancake had been devoured and the dishes were piled into the sink. "Now, Howard?" Vince bounced on his toes. 

"I suppose the dishes can wait this once." And all that was part of their holiday tradition. In a flash Whirlwind Noir had Howard seated on the couch with three presents in his lap, the remaining three cradled in his own arms. "Here, careful, you'd knocked the tags off."

"Oh, I know which is from who. Do mine first." He shoved the largest one at Howard. 

Peeling the hand-painted wrapping paper a single strand of cellophane at a time, so it could be reused, Howard enjoyed Vince's anticip. . . ation as much as his own. "Oh, Vince, _Treasure Island_! This was my favorite story as a child!"

"I remember."

"Lands and stars, it's a first edition! What it must have cost you!"

"Don't worry. I made a good deal for it, Howard. The bookseller wanted something snazzy to wear to the Dr. Who Con, so I made him a Leela costume."

"Thank you, Vince, I'll treasure this book."

"My turn!" 

From Howard Vince received a DVD of his secret favorite movie, _Heidi_, along with a box of Kleenex and a promise to keep the secret safe from Vince's fashion-conscious friends. Then there were gifts of magazine subscriptions from Bollo: _National Geographic_ for Howard and _Hair Today Gone Tomorrow_ for Vince. And last, two unlabeled presents. "The tags fell off, but obviously, they're from Naboo." Howard opened his. Inside a Tiffany box--which got Vince hyper-excited until he realized the gift hadn't come from Tiffany's--lay a tiny bottle labeled "drink in entirety." A Post It added, "You will have the superpower you've always dreamt of. Effects will last one day only. P. S. Don't ask more. I spoil you ball bags enough as it is." 

"Intriguing." Howard uncorked his bottle and sniffed the magenta liquid. "Smells like candy floss. What do you suppose he means, 'superpower you've always dreamt of'?"

Vince shrugged, already kicking away the shredded wrapping paper from his gift. "I got the same thing, except mine is green and smells like leeks. Same note."

"Well, what superpower have you always dreamt of? Let me guess. You want to fly."

"That would be well cool, but no."

"Shape shifting. To change yourself into a liger or a giraffopotomus."

"Godzilla. But no, not exactly."

"Time travel. So you could be a future sailor."

"Almost." Vince lay back into the couch cushions, daydreaming. "If I had a superpower for a day--"

"And you do."

"I'd transform myself into David Bowie, 1973." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Ziggy Stardust."

Howard tried to recall images from the concert video Vince had made him watch. "Ziggy doesn't have any superpowers."

"Oh yes he does." Vince crooned to the ceiling, "'Ziggy played guitar.'" He cracked one eye open to peer at Howard, who was nodding sagely. "Everyone would sit up and take notice of me. Listen to me, watch me, dress and talk like me, want to do me or be me, but as soon as they reached out to touch me, bam! I'm something else. I'm Aladdin Sane, with a lightning bolt streaked down my face. And just when they think they've caught me--"

"Bam!" Howard provided.

"Right. I'm the Thin White Duke. I'm changing so fast I can't keep up with myself."

"I think you do that already." Howard tugged at Vince's "I'm a Little Monster" t-shirt. Tomorrow it would go into the back of a cupboard, never to emerge again, and a new outfit would replace it. For an hour or two.

"The Flash of Fashion. 'I turned myself to face me.'" Vince twisted the bottle in his fingers, admiring the sunlight reflecting off the glass. "'But I never caught a glimpse.'"

Too fast to be caught and found out. Too fast for the chavs, the teachers, the music critics, the Old School Ties that passed him on the streets each morning and sneered. Too fast even for Bryan, who tried not to but judged him anyway when he announced he wanted to be a musician too. Or an artist too. Or a style icon too. Or all the above. Whatever, so long as people would look at him and say, "That's Bryan's boy. A chip off the old block." 

So long as people would look at him.

Vince gulped the potion in one go. 

"Wait! Don't you think--Naboo's not here. What if--"

Vince screwed up his nose. "Tastes like leeks. Go on, Howard, try yours. What can go wrong, when it only lasts a day?"

"What can go wrong?" Howard stared at Vince in horror. But after ten minutes nothing had happened, so Vince shrugged and gathered up the trash to carry to the bin. Howard thought about his own secret superpower wish: tonight of all nights, with so many loud and troublesome strangers ravaging the neighborhood and all of Vince's pretty friends barging in and out of the shop, would be a good time to have his wish come true, to be the ultimate unseen wallflower, to fade into the woodwork, so to speak, to move about freely with no one judging him, making assumptions about him, cracking jokes about him. 

To be invisible.

II. "How to Be Invisible"

Vince reached for the tea pot. The water inside had gone cold; he set the kettle on the burner to start over. He reached for his tea cup, then reached again because something was wrong; his hand wasn't moving. Or was it? He felt the cool ceramic beneath his fingertips. He felt the handle bite into his index finger as he snagged the cup. He saw the cup dangle in mid-air, then heard it clink as he set it down on the counter. He backed away from the counter, hands raised before his eyes. "HOWARD!"

That was no ordinary "Howardhowardhoward" pestering call. Howard charged into the kitchen so fast his feet slid on the linoleum when he tried to stop. He crashed into his friend, reached out to grab his shuddering shoulders. Connected with fabric and beneath it, bone, but saw only fabric. "Whhhaaat the?" The Harley Quinn costume floated in front of him, then spun to face him. Except there was no face. "Vince?"

"Howard?" Howard felt a finger stroke his cheek, a finger that wasn't there. Or maybe it was. "Howard, is that you in there?"

"Vince, is that you?" He slid a palm under the t-shirt and met warm, shivering flesh. He released a fearful breath. "Invisible."

"Huh?" The toaster floated from the counter to the space between them. "Oh my god."

"That was my wish. To be invisible." He cleared his throat; something was wrong with his voice.

"Oh my god!" The t-shirt sleeve rose to rub what Howard assumed was Vince's cheeks. Probably wet with tears. 

"It only lasts a day. If you stay inside, no one will ever know."

"But look at you." The flat side of the toaster moved round and Howard squinted into its shiny surface. Staring back at him was a vaguely familiar face, made up with lipstick, eyeshadow and a cup-sized circle in the center of the forehead. For a moment he thought he'd transformed into Vince, but Vince corrected him. "You got my wish. You're Ziggy." 

"'Well hung and snow white tan.'" Howard chuckled gruffly. "See? I pay attention to your music."

"Yeah. . . . Quick, turn around."

"What?" He felt firm hands on his shoulders, pushing. He turned. The toaster rose up to meet him again: he had transformed into Lightning Boy, or whatever. 

"Turn again." 

"Stop it. I'm getting dizzy." And confused. His toaster face was skeletal and alabaster. He sat down at the kitchen table to collect his thoughts. Dishes. Dirty dishes in the sink. He got up to run water in the sink. He tossed a towel at . . . Invisible Boy. "Got to wash these dishes. Figure this out," he muttered, adding a squirt of pink soap to the water. 

"Howard? Sing something. Sing 'One day I'm gonna write a poem in a letter.'" Vince demonstrated. Howard sang. "You sound just like him."

"Maybe we should call Naboo."

"And admit to him we screwed up again?"

"'We'? You were--never mind."

They cleaned the dishes in silence.

"Howard?" His voice was soft, on the edge of imploring. "I always wanted to be Bowie."

"I know."

"Did you always want--"

"Yeah. Like a ghost through the fog. Sneak up on people and listen. Or pull their trousers down." Like the bullies at school.

"I could do it for you. We could go out on the streets and to the clubs. You could tell me what to do and I would. Then you'd know what it's like." He gave Howard a minute to mull the offer over. 

"And I could be your Bowie. I'd walk--no, sir, I'd stroll into the Velvet Onion like I owned the place."

"'Cause you would. Bowie owned every place."

"And they'd beg me to perform. I'd play guitar and sing."

"Then 'leave 'em to hang.' No one would wonder, 'cause it's Halloween."

"Or they would wonder, because I sound just like him."

"Would it be, you know, disrespectful, considering he's. . . ."

"What do you think he'd have thought of it?" Howard busied himself with the screaming kettle.

"I think. . . Maybe he'd have found it funny."

Howard turned, searching for eyes he couldn't see. "I'll live your dream, Vince, and you live mine."

III. "In the Labyrinth You Stand in Front of a Million Doors"

His feet appeared first, then his ankles, his knees--Howard tossed a bathrobe at him before any other uncovered body parts could materialize. He'd stripped down before they went out to the street; that way he could pass completely unnoticed through the crowds. He started with a gang of chavs leaning against the library. "Get 'em, Vince," Howard growled into the earpiece. "Before they vandalize the place." In three shakes the chavs were soundly humiliated, spooked into the street lights for all the trick-or-treaters to point and laugh at, their trousers dragging round their ankles, their caps turned inside out, and the spray paint they'd intended to use now decorating their faces with the words "loser," "waste of space" and "bum me please."

Vince doubled over, breathless with laughter. "Who next, Howard?"

"Let's get some candid photos of Bob Fossil. I owe him."

\----  
Howard strolled into the Velvet Onion like he owned the place, because from that moment, he did. The dancers parted like the Red Sea for him. The Flighty Zeus suddenly went silent at the microphone and stared dumbly. A server dropped her tray. And all around him, voices whispered, then murmured, then called out to him. Hands stretched, daring to touch his skin-tight striped one piece or his shock of red hair. "It can't be," Lance could be heard snorting into the microphone. "Just a real good make up job." His partner jabbed him in the ribs.

Howard paused in the center of the newly cleared circle. "Someone hand me a guitar." 

A Harptone 12-string appeared in his waiting hands. He strolled up the side stairs onto the stage. "Weird. Gilley." Howard barked and two shadowy figures appeared behind him. Lance and Harold bowed to him and scurried off. "Count us in, Woody."

The trio--Howard, Leroy and a behind-the-lights Vince--played a twenty-minute Spiders from Mars set. Howard had never heard most of these songs, but his voice knew the words and his fingers found the chords. To the wild cheers of the adoring audience, they swept off the stage and through the kitchen to the alley, where Leroy's Toyota awaited. Screaming girls pursued, clutching at the Spiders' hair and clothes. After one particularly intimate manhandling, Howard doubted whether he could call himself a virgin any more. He momentarily considered surrendering to the teens, just to achieve the full rock star experience, but when a claw of acrylic fingernails swiped at his face, he kept running.

And laughing.

\----  
Bollo lumbered up the stairs under the weight of suitcases and grocery bags filled with shaman supplies. "Precious Vince have good holiday?"

"The best. Thanks, Bollo, for the subscription."

"My holiday went well too," Howard volunteered. "Thank you for the _National Geographic_. Did you get our gifts?"

Bollo lowered one of the suitcases so they could see the candy necklace and the pair of headphones he was wearing. "Good gifts. Cheers." He carried the bags into Naboo's bedroom.

The shaman flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. 

"Have fun, Naboo?" Howard queried. 

"I'm too old," Naboo moaned. "No more wild parties. Not until New Year's anyway. Thanks for that case of Resolve, Howard. Brilliant holiday gift."

"And, uh, thanks for our gifts too. Brilliant."

Vince nodded in agreement. 

"Did you use them already? I realized later you might need more instructions than what I left you."

Vince and Howard exchanged smiles. 

"The instructions sufficed. The gifts themselves--very educational, Naboo."

Vince's head bobbed. "Educational."

"Educational. Yes, sir."

Naboo shoved off his turban, plopped his feet on the coffee table and sighed in annoyance. "Ball bags."

**Author's Note:**

> Quotations and titles are taken from these songs: "Ziggy Stardust," "Changes" and "Blue Jean" (Bowie) and "How to Be Invisible" (Kate Bush).


End file.
